Raindrop
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: Wash and Maine are sent on a training exercise to a waterlogged planet. Their mission: convince two bases full of sim troopers to relocate using Project Freelancer's trademark diplomatic acumen. But a storm can play tricks on the eyes, and it's easy for someone—or something—to lurk between the sheets of rain...


Wash hunched his shoulders at another flare of lightning, tensing against the not-so-distant rumble of thunder, then shook himself from a daze, focusing back down his rifle's sights. It was easy to be hypnotized into stillness by the wavy pattern of the rain wicking off his helmet's visor, and right now, he needed to be ready. "This is ridiculous," he said. "There's no reason we couldn't have waited until the storm passed."

Maine's response was in the form of a flashing icon at the corner of his HUD; when Wash flicked his eyes over to open the mailbox, he was presented with a helpful article all about the meteorology of Freelancer Testing Ground 104b. The words _**persistent violent convection**_ were highlighted and underlined.

"Okay," Wash said. "So maybe we couldn't have waited it out. But c'mon, this is silly. The sim troopers stationed here must be practically swimming. What do they do all day, set up elaborate canoe races? Hide in the basement to avoid getting struck by lightning?"

Maine, sitting beside him with his back to the crumbling chest-high boulder Wash was using to steady his rifle, just shrugged.

"You still sulking?"

A word scrolled across the bottom of his HUD: _**nah.**_

"Uh-huh. Look, I know you had leave coming up, but this is an important training mission. The Counselor recommended us to the Director." And, all right, maybe Wash's nervous babbling had something to do with that, but that totally wasn't his fault. The man was unsettling! It was tough to give a hard 'no' to somebody who'd come back with, 'I see, and what are your feelings about no?' "We didn't exactly have a choice here."

 _ **nah.**_

"That doesn't even make sense! What are you disagreeing with? I told you, you can't just get out of any conversation by saying 'nah'."

 _ **nah.**_

Wash scowled. "You've definitely been spending too much time around York."

 _ **nah.**_

"If you say that one more time—"

 _ **yeah?**_

"Oh, very funny." He squinted down the scope again, but even his thermals weren't picking up much in the chaos of the storm. "I heard they're all a bunch of dropouts who couldn't cut it in the real army. People nobody'd miss, y'know? That's kinda messed up."

Maine finally stood with a noncommittal grunt and squared off next to Wash, peering down into the valley below.

"I know, I know, but it's still messed up." Wash clicked his tongue, focusing in on a distant figure in blue armor and transmitting the coordinates to Maine's HUD. "Okay, I think I see one. That should be our point of contact, right? Scenario 17 is straightforward, we just gotta get these guys to believe that there's an external threat and have them evac with us to their next base. Relocation for them, and training in diplomatic persuasion for us. Two birds with one stone. What kind of threat should we manufacture?"

Maine tilted his head up, rain steaming from his globed visor. As if on cue, a stream of rocks and mud rumbled ominously past their makeshift watchtower.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, that's maybe a no-brainer. Don't look so smug. So the valley's coming down, mudslides, the whole deal, we gotta get out. Who are we gonna be?" At Maine's blank stare, Wash sighed. "C'mon, Maine, work with me here. We should have some sort of backstory in place. Somehow I doubt we'll pass as heavily armed and armored environmental surveyors."

Maine shrugged, vaulted over the boulder, and started a skidding, stumbling run down the valley wall. The blue-armored figure down in the valley turned tail and ran back into the base.

"Or we could just hope we pass as heavily armed and armored environmental surveyors," Wash said, clipping his weapon to his back, and launched himself after Maine. "Why no, this isn't a rifle, it's a device used to measure atmospheric pressure. Very loudly. At extreme speed."

A snort of laughter sounded over the comms. Wash grinned, then had to concentrate on his footing as the sludgy ground gave way under his feet. By the time the incline started to level off, he'd given up and was mostly just sliding down the mud on his behind. At the bottom, he stood up, making a valiant attempt to swipe away some of the clinging mud, then glowered at Maine, who was standing with his arms crossed in improbably pristine white armor.

"You laughing at me?"

 _ **nah.**_

Wash sighed and unhooked his rifle. "All right. This is Blue Base. Privates Samuels, Sari, Lancer, led by Captain Mendez. Convince them we mean business, get everyone aboard the Pelican, mission accomplished, on to Red Base. And remember: diplomatic. We're being graded on our winning demeanor."

Maine's helmet tilted at an angle that somehow communicated the wearer's confidence in his diplomatic acumen and mild hurt that said confidence was not shared by the mud-covered asshole before him. Wash flipped him off good-naturedly, and strode up the main entrance to the base, pitching his amped voice to ring out over the constant drumming of the rain.

"Hey, anybody home? We're environmental surveyors from Command! We've got a, uh, a Code Twelve here, and we're here to evacuate you."

No reply. The entrance to the base was in dismal shape, rain-soaked tarps thrown up over the holes in the ceiling as temporary stopgaps against the endless deluge, half-insulated wiring sparking and sputtering along the walls, water puddling in corners, a pile of old blankets and clothing rotting but neatly folded, and, almost humorously, a single bucket in the center of the room catching stray drips of rain.

 _ **creepy**_ , Maine commented, and Wash nodded uneasily.

"Hello? We really need to get you folks out of here!" Nobody downstairs. That left the bulk of the barracks. Wash slung his battle rifle up to his shoulder in what he hoped was a casual, actually-a-device-to-measure-atmospheric-pressure pose. "Y'know, Code Thirteen's pretty much the worst there is."

A hushed voice from somewhere in the unlit portion of the base. "You said Code Twelve a second ago."

" _Sari_."

"Sorry. But he did."

"Just upgraded," Maine growled. "Bad situation."

Wash didn't turn to face the voices; they sounded like they belonged to nervous people holding weapons, and nervous people holding weapons generally didn't take kindly to sudden movement. His shoulderblades itched, but his fritzing HUD was starting to resolve figures behind him, and he had faith in his reflexes, if it came to that. Or, well. Faith in Maine's reflexes. And with the way his HUD was clearing up, he'd be sure to—

Ah. Slight problem.

"Slight problem," he said, opening a private channel directly to Maine. "There's supposed to be four people at this base, right?"

Maine glanced over at him, head cocked, and transmitted, _**?**_

"I'm coming up with eight, not counting us." Wash hesitated a moment, trying to resist the urge to pull his rifle into a more aggressive position, then switched back to his amped voice. "Hey, we're not here to cause trouble. We're here from Command, we're supposed to get you guys out of here." Okay. Be jovial. Be diplomatic. Be _political_. "I mean, man, with the weather you guys have been living with, I'm surprised you're not jumping at this chance."

A moment of silence, and another hushed exchange of whispers, barely audible to his suit's enhanced pickups. "Make the little one drop his gun."

"Not the big one?"

"Fuck, do _you_ want to make that guy drop his gun? Be my guest."

"It was only a suggestion."

 _ **the little one :)**_ , Maine transmitted.

"Remind me to laugh the next time you hit your head on something," Wash grumbled under his breath, and, ignoring Maine's reply of _**nah**_ , raised his voice to say, "Well? Everyone okay here?"

Another whispered conversation, this one altogether too quiet to pick up. Wash, straining his auditory pickups, winced when a particularly loud clap of thunder rang through instead. And then a new voice: "How do we know you're not one of them?"

Wash turned, slowly and carefully. His HUD was sketching out rough outlines of the soldiers, huddled up against a wall behind some crates. Behind some crates that were, in fact, apparently stacked to create maximum cover and a clear firing line for any unwary visitors. Huh. "Oh, we're not from Red Base," he said. "Command, like I said."

"I know you're not from Red Base," said the voice, and one armored form broke from the others to step out into the open. Her shotgun was aimed directly at Wash's head, held with unshaking hands; Wash held up a hand when Maine tensed. "I'm Sergeant Alyssa Yau," she said. "Leader of Red Base over here. My soldiers are holed up here, same as the Blues. But you're lying."

Okay. Eight people. The roster had mentioned four at Red Base, four at Blue Base. All present and accounted for. Wash didn't dare move the hand still holding his rifle, although he was beginning to regret the casual way he'd slung it over his shoulder; his arm was starting to cramp up. "No, we're actually from Command. That's entirely true."

"Uh-huh." She cocked her head to one side, obviously assessing the threat.

"Them who?" Maine said, and they both glanced over to him, startled.

"Sorry?"

"Said we weren't one of them." Maine shrugged. He was taking a cue from Wash, holding his shotgun loose at his side. "Them who?"

Sergeant Yau stared at them a moment longer; Wash's HUD was picking up an elevated heartrate. "You say you have transport."

"That's why we're here."

A voice from the shadows: "We could kill them and take their transport."

"No," Wash said, calmly. "You couldn't. Not with only eight of you."

"Cocky little shit," said somebody out of sight.

Sergeant Yau stared him up and down. "I believe him," she said, then sighed. It was a sound with the weight of days, weeks, months behind it. "Okay, we're gonna work together, here, but first we've gotta know what we're dealing with. Helmets off."

"Uh," said Wash. "Why? What are you expecting?"

"Look," said Yau. "There's something out there. Something in the rain. Maybe more than one. It lives in the shadows, way out beyond the valley walls, but it comes down here to hunt. Destroys anything it can lay hands on, doesn't much seem to care whenever we shoot at it. Screams like hell, too. Trapped out here, a scream like that just worms its way into your brain. It's been fucking with us for weeks, but we haven't managed to get word out to Command with the storm and all."

"Something in the rain," Wash echoed, and glanced sidelong at Maine. There hadn't been any mention of native fauna in the mission briefing. Potentially part of the training mission, then. The Director was exceptionally fond of what he called Unstated Parameters.

"Yes," Yau said, levelly. "We've all seen it. Took Sari's arm off last week. Killed my Private Mitchell week before that. Some sort of creature indigenous to the planet. Sure wasn't in our mission briefings, back when we still got 'em, but it definitely acts like a clear and present threat to materiel and personnel, so we're treating it as such. Never got a good look at it, but it walks on two feet, so if you don't mind removing the helmets?"

Wash hesitated, then slowly, with exaggerated care, clipped his rifle to his shoulder and released the seals on his helmet. When he pulled it off, the moldy smell of the rain-drenched room assailed his nostrils, but at least the hammering sound of the rain itself was dampened. For the first time, Yau's aim wavered; he supposed she was probably taking in the still-healing shrapnel scars criss-crossing the side of his head, mementos of the last training mission that had featured Unstated Parameters.

"Okay?" he said. "No monsters here. I'll vouch for the big guy. And I don't hear too good without my helmet these days, so if you don't mind?"

With a slightly embarrassed wave, Yau motioned for him to put his helmet back on. As he did, he switched back briefly to a private channel with Maine. "You see? Diplomacy wins the day, no shots fired. Am I good, or am I good?"

 _ **nah.**_

Choosing to rise heroically above these slings and arrows, Wash turned back to Yau, casually pulling his rifle off his shoulder in the same motion. "So? Ready to head out?"

Yau was staring at him, her head tilted to one side. "Hey," she said. "How did you know there are eight of us in the room?"

"Lifesign readings," Wash said. "My HUD's shielded, so most of the storm's interference doesn't get in."

"Huh," said Yau. "That's what I thought. You said eight?"

"Sure. Eight of you, two of us." Wash felt a chill, heard Maine tensing behind him. "I saw the roster. Four people on Blue Team..."

"...and four on Red Team," Yau said. "Only it's three now, without Mitchell. There are only seven of us left."

There was a moment of almost resigned silence, and then something started screaming. It was a ululating sound that echoed weirdly off the walls, hit some resonance deep in Wash's chest and burrowed in, spreading across his ribcage, vibrating up along his sternum, reverberating to his tight-pressed lips like some echoing scream was trying to escape from his own throat, like calling to like.

Immediately, he shut down his helmet's auditory receptors, plunged the world into a muffled silence except for the loud rasp of his own breathing. He raised his rifle to his shoulder, took a step back, turned his head quickly to check Maine's position; he was listing against a wall, the fingers of one hand pressed to his faceplate like he was trying to physically shake something out. Shotgun in a loose grip at his side. Not good.

 _ **disable audio pickups**_ , Wash sent, waited to see Maine relax, then exhaled and turned back to face the others.

In the silence and the darkness, the red-tinged outlines on his HUD were locked in an eerie dance against the wall. One figure moved faster and stranger than the others, juking and weaving around confused lunges, reflexive dodges, and even the odd blast of gunfire. There was blood on the ground, darker and thicker than the puddles of rainwater through which it spread.

Wash forced his stiffening limbs into motion, reached out to grab at Yau's arm as she made a move toward her squad. "C'mon," he said. His voice sounded small and distant to his ears, but his HUD assured him that his armor's amplifier was still projecting his voice. "Come on, we gotta get you out of here!"

Yau shook her head, wrenched her arm away, and fired into the corner of the room at the eerily silent tableau. Wash took a breath, then raised his own rifle and fired as best he could at the shimmering outline. Even with the flare of his muzzle flash and the continuing stop-motion glimmer of distant lightning, his top midrange marksmanship scores meant that he was pretty damn sure his shots were connecting. Whatever was out there didn't seem to care.

Maine charged in, keeping right to the edges of Wash's line of fire. Maybe a little too close; Wash almost caught him in the spray of his fire a couple of times. They were both shaken, off-balance. Wash saw Maine's hand close around a limb, saw him jerk back like he'd been burned.

Darkness at his side; Yau had stopped firing. Wash glanced over his shoulder to see her sprinting out of the room. He paused and glanced back at Maine, who appeared to be squaring off with the creature and, hell, it wasn't like Wash's ineffective bullets were doing much here anyway.

As Wash dashed after Yau, he cautiously started amping his auditory pickups back up; the program he'd been messing with to filter out specific waveforms wasn't out of alpha testing yet and seemed to be working a little erratically, so he could hear vague, dreamy echoes of the scream but not much more. Somehow the effect compounded the weirdness of the sound, and he focused on the even rhythm of his breathing to drown it out.

He found Yau crouched over a computer bank in the next room. "We're getting you out," he said. "We've got a Pelican just at the edge of the valley walls."

Yau shook her head; her words were coming out fast and clipped and he had to focus to understand them. "No time. We knew it'd come for us eventually. But this time we're ready. And we're sending that monster straight to hell."

Wash had just time enough to say, "What are you doing?" before the bomb went off in his face.

It was a simple, improvised explosive, and in the split-second of silence before the flame, Wash registered the wiring running up the walls, to other rooms—

The explosion, curiously quiet and muffled, lifted him off his feet, slammed him into a wall and dropped him onto the floor. He had a confused impression of his helmet cracking and spiderwebbing under the extreme heat, and then the smoke and the hard, racking coughs that came with it. The ceiling groaned above him. Another explosion, somewhere nearby, and he reached a hand through the debris beside him, scrabbling for his rifle.

Another explosion. The ceiling caved in.

When Wash opened his eyes, his throat was hoarse and raw like he'd been screaming.

His helmet was off. There was something pressed against his nose and mouth, hard plastic, and he forced himself not to panic when he recognized a high-oxy rebreather. He was getting rain in his eyes, cold and harsh and burning. Everything hurt, fucking... everything.

Maine had his helmet off. He said something in a mumble the first time, and Wash managed to squint enough focus to read his lips for round two. "Lucky," Maine said, and tapped a finger against Wash's forehead. His armor was no longer pristine white, coated even under the pouring rain in a clinging patina of blood and soot. Wash had a shaky-sick feeling that some of that blood was his.

"Don't feel very lucky," he said, or tried to say. It came out sharp and raspy and triggered enough of a coughing fit that the darkness started crowding in again at the corners of his vision. Maine fixed the rebreather back over his mouth and nose with a glower.

Wash breathed, staring up at the sky. Lightning. Rain. They weren't far from the base, judging by the smoke rising at the corner of his vision. He wanted to ask what had happened, if anyone else had survived, but he was pretty sure he knew the answer. Still...

He pushed Maine's hand away. "The hell was that thing?"

Maine shrugged. "Dead now," he said.

"I mean—" Wash coughed, tried to curl onto his side, felt a jolt of pain through his ribs and thought better of it. "—why didn't we know about it?"

"Don't know everything."

Wash took a shaky breath, let it out slowly. "And that doesn't worry you?"

Maine's face went blank, long enough that Wash had already started his drift toward a temptingly pain-free unconsciousness. Then Maine seemed to shake himself, shrugged again, and brought his hand up to signal a smile. "Nah," he said.

Wash smiled and coughed a laugh. "No more volunteer missions, huh?" He took another shaky breath. "Just gimme a sec. Good to go soon."

With a mildly exasperated expression, Maine pressed the rebreather back to his face. "No rush."

With a sigh, Wash settled back on the muddy ground, focused on the slow rasp of his breathing, and watched the gray skies for any break in the cloud.


End file.
